His face, thin and filthy, fills my eyes. Nothing else exists, nothing matters. I close my eyes; to pray, or to break away from this sad, disturbing image, I do not know. The man on His left is weeping bitterly from the pain, but smiling, slightly, triumphantly, knowing he is not the most hated of all. He winces as a slight motion of His foot sends a lightning bolt of pain throughout His already aching body. The man on His right hangs limply like seaweed, too exhausted to do anything but watch the growing riot below. Cries rise from the crowd in mocking voices towards the man in the middle of the three rickety wooden crosses: "King of the Jews, eh?" "Where's your father now?" "Save yourself if you can!" A stone, like a spark from the underworld, flies out of the crowd, hitting the man who is already in agony, already bleeding, already dying, already knowing how much joy His death will mean to the world. The man on His right hangs limply like seaweed, too exhausted to do anything but watch the growing riot below. I survey the man against whom the crowd was rallying. His feet are covered with His own blood, the nail poking out of His flesh dripping steadily His thick red juice of life. His legs are like an old man's – they have seen their times and trials of strength, and now are weak and aged, it seems. The ragged cloth tied around His waist hangs loosely because of the extra weight of his blood with which it is strewn. His chest heaves in as He inhales one of His last few breaths of air. He grunts with the effort it takes to push Himself up on the rusty nail embedded in His feet, only to have the pleasure of being able to exhale. A drop of the mixture of sweat and blood on His forehead runs down His brow. His arms, like cords of rope, hang weakly and feebly, supported only by the metal nails implanted in his wrists that are covered in His sacred, scarlet blood. His face is streaked with blood and dirt, like a child's after a rough day of tumbling. His mouth is hanging open, and He tries to fill his lungs with precious oxygen without the pain of a thousand knives being thrusted into His body. The crown of thick, spear like thorns on His head makes heavy drops of blood run into his eyes. But His eyes, oh, his eyes, they contrast with the rest of humanity. This scene, this riot, this world seem to be full of hatred and injustice, but His wonderful, glorious eyes gleam as a window into his soul. They are filled with inner peace and joy. They are filled with love and compassion. They are filled with mercy and forgiveness. Slowly the light shining in those eyes begins to fade, and He takes his most precious last breath. His body relaxes and darkness sweeps over the land like a hawk on its prey. The last thing I see is the carefully made sign above his head which reads "This is Jesus, King of the Jews", before I drop to my knees and pray.